


Riding Hooome

by proud basic catgirl (de_scientia)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/M, Family Reunions, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal Spoilers, Specific Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26185501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/de_scientia/pseuds/proud%20basic%20catgirl
Summary: As there were people he left behind on the First when coming here, there were people he had left behind here when he had first set out on his journey. Those people yet lived, and as of late, they had never been far from G’raha’s thoughts.But would they welcome him home, he wondered?
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 10
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

Sometimes, he liked to sit on a cliff high above the Rising Stones and watch the sun rise on the Crystal Tower.

One might think he would be sick of the sight by now, that he would only see a prison he had escaped and should wish to leave as far behind as possible; a virus that had crept through his body, incrementally choking his flesh until it had claimed him completely. But his relationship with the tower was...complicated, and sometimes he sat here just to pry open his own heart and reflect upon it. 

On one hand, there was the expected visceral aversion to what which had inflicted mortal injury upon him, like a kit instinctively learns to fear fire when he gets caught by the flame. But on the other, his connection to the tower was too strong to not... _forgive_ it, in a sense, as one forgives a family member who wounds without ill intent. All that the tower had taken from him, it had returned tenfold: It had brought him Z’seira. It had brought him Lyna. It had brought him to the past and the future both, and then to other worlds beyond. It had brought safety, comfort, and hope to the people of the Crystarium. And then it had brought him home.

_Home…_

What a strange and remarkable journey he had been upon. G’raha Tia breathed in deeply this Mor Dhonan air, thick with aether, the firm bark of a tree pressing against his back as his lungs expanded. The sky above him shifted from hues of deep violet to lavender to pink, and the surroundings were so familiar yet so foreign all at once. It was unnerving, but there was _time_ to become reacquainted.

And therein did his heart pull. As there were people he left behind on the First when coming here, there were people he had left behind here when he had first set out on his journey. Those people yet lived, and as of late, they had never been far from G’raha’s thoughts.

But would they welcome him home, he wondered?

There was a shuffling of rocks behind him that caused his ears to perk. He turned his head, but saw only tree bark from his position, and did not bother to crane any further to view what he already knew by her gait and the fact that no one else knew he enjoyed this spot. His tail swished.

“There you are,” said his love.

Z’seira Xarynh, Warrior of Light, Warrior of Darkness. Slayer of Eikons and Ascians, Traveler of Worlds, Moogle Postmaster of Souls. Staunch holder of the heart of one G’raha Tia.

He stretched his hand outward to her before he could yet see her, an invitation for her to hold it or join him as she saw fit. (Or both— he shan’t complain.) 

“I was thinking,” he said ponderously, “about my family.”

It was not a hand that made contact with his, but a roll of bread.

“I— Oh.”

She took a seat beside him then, a petite huntress from lands far south of the ones from which he hailed, her soft beige skin glowing splendidly golden beneath the dawn’s increasing light, her sun-blanched hair dyed a rich rolanberry in the style of the Ul’dahns. She wiggled her ears at him, and there was a mischievous crinkle in her shrewd silver eyes.

As though prompted by the food offering, his stomach rumbled treacherously. “...Yes, I suppose I am indeed hungry.”

“I thought that might be a safe gamble.” Z’seira unlatched a pack slung over her opposite shoulder and passed him a canteen containing a wonderfully aromatic tea, rich with spices and fruits he hadn’t realized how much he had missed over the years. “Be careful; it’s still hot.”

It was indeed, but the deep flavors of the tea paired so essentially with the plain bread that G’raha chanced burning his tongue just a little, and still he was happier for it. He did _eat_ in his old body, sustained by the tower as it had been, but it had not been the same as this— this total reliance upon food for sustenance and the consequential bodily demand for satiation, or the pleasure his taste buds saw fit to grace him with when he obeyed. Hunger was truly the best sauce, and he too often found himself forgetting to eat until he was ravenous. Resulting in ungraceful displays such as this.

“Have you been in contact with them yet?”

There was a regrettable lapse in his table manners as he finished with an overly large bite before responding to her, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I have not…” G’raha frowned at the half-eaten roll in his hands and swallowed. “Truth be told, I know not even what they know of me. I…was rather remiss in writing as often as I should have, and—if you recall—my departure was rather swift, lest Rammbroes have stopped me.” 

“I _recall_ ,” Z’seira remarked wryly.

G’raha looked up to find her smirking at him, and bowed his head with a sheepish smile. They had not been particularly close back then, so he was at least innocent of having abandoned _her_ , if not his family. All the same, his departure had been somewhat, ah— _dramatic_ in a way that so many of his youthful tendencies had been: ever eager to prove himself, ever eager to engage in heroics and showmanship. Thrice as eager when attempting to impress someone who had stricken his fancy so. That he had ever managed to charm her regardless was no small miracle to him; With the sobering perspective of an old man’s life experiences came a significant helping of embarrassment for who he had been merely a cat nap ago. 

“How strange…” he mused. “To you, and to them, ’tis been but five years—and to me at times as well. But at the same time it feels so very long ago, like waking from a dream that feels all at once vivid and real yet so distant and elusive. I hold a century’s worth of memories in the span of those five years, yet for all I know, they have barely noted my absence, or mayhaps they mourn me freshly still.”

Z’seira raised her eyebrows and hastily swallowed a chunk of bread. “Do they think you _dead_?”

“I would assume so.”

“Well wicked white, Raha, parchment hasn’t gone extinct while you were gone. I promise we can spare some.”

G’raha smiled with some amusement, and as much of it for the mark the First had left on Z’seira’s cursing habits as for the incongruence in how they perceived family matters. “I believe this calls for a more personal visit.”

“Oh— well, right. Of course. Yes, you should absolutely go and see them.” Her ears fluttered a reflexive tell of embarrassment, and she waved her half-eaten roll of bread about in gesticulation. “Don’t worry about us; everyone here knows you must have personal business that needs tending to, and that it takes precedence far before your duty to the Scions— And if anyone forgets, I’ll remind them. In my experience, it’s often best to take advantage of these lulls while they last. We won’t mark you tardy or absent, I promise.” She winked at him, then gleefully resumed indulging in her breakfast. 

G’raha placed his hand gently atop her empty one, which was supporting her weight on the ground between them. He said nothing until she looked at him curiously, and then his eyes were tender and imploring, full of love. 

“I would like you to come with me,” he said softly. 

Z’seira’s eyes widened and her mouth hung open dumbly next to her last bite of bread. She closed it, and the initial shock quickly gave way to concern, which was not a reaction wholly unexpected or uncalled for given the...circumstances of such a suggestion. 

“Is that...wise?”

It was a fair question, and one which he found himself quite willing to leave unanswered. Nor could that uncertainty chase the complacent smile from his face, for he was far more certain of other things that made the answer irrelevant to him. “’Tis not a matter of wisdom for me, but, I think, of necessity. Mayhaps we will face censure. Mayhaps they wish not to see me again at all, and it matters not with whom I spend my days and share my heart. But I would know, either way, and I would have them know me. To that end, you are a most important part of me.”

“Raha…”

“If you feel uncomfortable, you needn’t accompany me, and I will not begrudge you the decision. While they are a far cry from what you have told me of _your_ tribe, I’ll not deny there may be risks. But I will be speaking of you whether or not you are with me when I do, and I will be honest with them.”

Z’seira frowned contemplatively at her last morsel of bread, and G’raha watched her brows knit together in a line that gave her features a surprisingly sharp edge. She was so slight of stature, so wiry and small that one might be forgiven in thinking she could not possibly be the storied great hero of their time. But it was in those contradictions that G’raha found he loved her most: the diminutive figure who could be mighty, the hardened mercenary who could be selfless and kind, the brave warrior who could be soft and afraid. Miqo’te women were seldom soft or delicate as was oft celebrated in certain cultures of Hyur, Elezen, Lalafell, or even the Mystel of the First, as they ever had to carry their tribes, and G’raha knew well what it meant for anyone raised in the tribal ways to show weakness and vulnerability. But every now and then, in small and quiet moments when she let down her walls, he was reminded how very fortunate he was to be trusted so by one he had idolized as a concept before he had ever rightfully loved as a person.

She set the morsel down atop the pack that had carried the tea and took both of his hands into hers. “I would never leave you to face that alone. What was it that you said the other day? ‘So long as we stand together, we can overcome all trials. As we have always done, have we not?’”

Though he had meant it when he said he would have accepted either decision with no begrudgery, relief swept over his features nonetheless. He clasped her hands in turn, giving them a small squeeze. “And come what may, I still mean it. Ever shall I.”

The anxiety in her eyes eased a measure as they glittered back at him, and her lips pulled into a rueful smile. 

“Let’s go on an adventure,” she said. “Let’s visit the G tribe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's got them so concerned? Will G'raha be welcomed by his family? And most importantly, is the G tribe full of redheads?? 👀 Tune in next time on... _The Adventures of G'raha Tia!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Returning to the G tribe with the Warrior of Light in tow, G'raha Tia has much to discuss with his father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, remember when it was August and I thought this fic would take me 2–3 weeks tops?? Surprise, I am much slower than that! And I think it will end up spanning 4–5 chapters instead of 3, because I need more than 1 chapter to visit the G tribe. (The Z tribe might be a much more abbreviated visit afterward, but we’ll see.)
> 
> More importantly, 5.4 came out earlier this week, and I would like to note that 1) this fic takes place before 5.4, was written before 5.4, and does not take any of 5.4 into consideration, (therefore, there are no 5.4 spoilers here!), nor will any future chapters, and 2) this chapter was written before 5.4 so ASDFGHJKL; certain PARTS that may STRONGLY RESEMBLE things that actually happened in 5.4 are entirely coincidental OTL. No, I was not meaning to pay an homage to that scene. No, I am not copying that scene. Yes, I am glad SE and I are on the same page, lol. Yes, I am also bummed that mine just seems derivative now. >:c But!! I hope you’ll be able to enjoy the thing in question on its own merits here and temporarily forget that the same damn thing happens in 5.4. (And if you haven’t played 5.4 yet, the thing I’m referring to isn’t a big spoiler thing and it happens in a different context, so no worries about proceeding here!)

Reaching the hidden location of the G tribe would have been half the adventure in and of itself had they not had both a native guide and a bird. Z’seira had been gifted the golden-winged lanner by the city-state of Ishgard years ago as thanks for disposing of yet another threat to the realm; yet another gift, yet another incentive for fighting someone else’s battles. But she rarely toted passengers, and the reassuring warmth of G’raha pressed against her back as they skirted lush treetops over the last uncolonized region of Ilsabard presented a welcome dichotomy to the much colder lands (and much colder period in her life) in which she had acquired it.

The Talon Wood was even thicker than the Twelveswood—and about half as forgiving, as G’raha told it—which was instrumental in shielding the small Miqo’te tribe from the Empire. But just inland of a well-concealed cove, with the harsh Xelphatol Mountains to the south and the raging Northern Empty to the west, there was enough clearance through the dense foliage for G’raha to direct her to steer the bird, and even enough room to maneuver beneath the canopy for a while before the forest’s density forced them to dismount.

“It shan’t be long now,” he said, taking the lead while she followed behind with the bird in tow.

A nervous excitement thrummed in his voice like the charged energy of a lightning spell and he hummed softly just for a means to expel it. It was hardly stealthy, and Z’seira felt her hackles rise in these unfamiliar surroundings, unsure of what to expect from any noise, behind any shift in the foliage, but there was something serene in how completely unconcerned G’raha was about the prospect of any threat, and she cautiously deferred to his familiarity with what lay ahead.

Though she had been raised with a shortbow in her hand back when her life’s work had been hunting game for the Z tribe, her career as an adventurer had drawn her toward favoring the lance, and her calling as Hydaelyn’s Chosen had led her to dabble in all sorts of other ways to kill things besides. A lance was far too unwieldy for a trip such as this, so she traveled with only two chakrams at her hips: circular blades that could be thrown or swung about her as the situation demanded. G’raha had his staff, of course, and was nearly as adept as Z’seira at switching to different combat styles as needed—not due to any preternatural gifts, but years of diligent training and passionate hard work that she could never hope to match even if she lived twice as long. All the same, as flickers of sunlight peeking through the canopy caught in the brilliant azure hue of the crystal in his staff, it struck her in a moment of fleeting amusement that they had both met as marksmen and now practiced anything but.

Twigs and underbrush crunched under her boots and Z’seira smiled as she watched him forge on ahead of her with such purpose, such undauntedness. The faintly luminescent shard of the Crystal Tower bobbed with his movements.

“Despite hunting and revering the gryphon, the G tribe has never been able to tame the beast for flight,” G’raha imparted, casting quick glances over his shoulder as though he was just as excited to share all his bits of knowledge as he was to be on this trip in the first place. “This is partly why the G tribe has adopted it as our totem, for it is as proud and untameable as we, ever evading the grasp of the Garlean Empire—and, as we now know, the Allagans before them.” He pushed a low-hanging branch out of his way, and held it as Z’seira and the bird passed before darting ahead of them again. “Given that, they may be surprised to see we have arrived by  _ lanner _ , but as long as she can stable with the chocobos, it shan’t be a problem.”

A tribe’s relationship with its totem could range from complete disinterest to near-deific worship, and no two tribes necessarily regarded their totem in the same way. A lanner was emphatically  _ not _ a gryphon, but it wasn’t out of the question that such a tribe might find all sky-dwelling bird mounts taboo. And unlike her companion, Z’seira’s only knowledge of foreign peoples typically came from visiting and meeting them coupled with a significant helping of trial and error, rather than any preemptive studying on cultures and customs. “I’m not going to offend them before I’ve even arrived, am I?”

“Offend? Hmm, no, though they might be wary. Anything in the skies usually presents a threat to us: Garlean airships, Ixali balloons. ’Tis why we hide ourselves so deep within the Talon Wood, beneath the cover of the trees. Incidentally,” he added, beaming with pride and looking back to see if she was duly impressed, “they are believed to be the tallest trees in the world.”

Z’seira grinned knowingly and dutifully indulged him in the question she suspected he was fishing for. “And how many have you climbed, Raha?”

He wiggled his ears at her playfully. “Why, all of them, of course.”

G’raha Tia, Climber of All The Trees, brightly forged on ahead until they soon came to a wooden gate held by two guardswomen armed with pikes. One was already positioned solidly in front of the gate, pike haft planted firmly in the ground, having likely heard their small entourage coming from half a malm away. But as they drew near enough for words and slowed to a halt before her, the guardswoman drew up to her full height and addressed them.

“Ho there, travelers. Beyond lies territory of the G tribe, and you—” The guardswoman quickly flipped the visor of her helmet upward, revealing wide golden eyes which now blinked in rapid surprise. “ _ G’raha Tia _ ?”

He answered as such, but it may as well have been the Crystal Exarch who responded, for all the calculated diplomacy in his voice. “Ah, G’talhdi Neneh,” he greeted with velvet smooth politeness. “It has been some time. I trust you are well?”

G’talhdi Neneh gave a snort of amusement and leaned on her pike, though she still firmly blocked the entryway. “Aye. Never thought the prodigal rrunt of the litter would make his way home, though. Weren’t you off on some important secret business or summat like that?”

“Ah—” He blinked his confusion. What exactly had they heard, and from whom? “You could say that.”

G’talhdi squinted and leaned in closer to peer conspicuously at G’raha, who instinctively leaned back, his ears shifting frontward on high alert. She had an ilm or two over him, which put him quite literally on the back foot. Z’seira’s tail swished with quiet agitation.

“Huh. Wasn’t it only one weird eye afore?”

His mouth opened and closed, something akin to a deeply stricken hurt flashing through the depths of said eyes. But rather than reacting, G’raha drew himself up to his full height of five fulms and two ilms and said rather stonily, “I should like to see my father. Know you if he is about?”

G’talhdi only smiled. “Same ol’ place, scholar.”

G’raha gave a curt bow. “Then we shall be on our way. If you would be so kind?”

Still smirking, G’talhdi withdrew her pike and stepped aside, gesturing toward the gate with an exaggerated flourish as the other guard opened it. G’raha cast his eyes quickly to Z’seira to ensure she and the bird were still following, and then hastened upon their way.

Behind them, the two guards discussed something amongst themselves in fervent hushed tones. Z’seira quirked her ears and tried to catch any of it, but they had soon put too much distance between them to make out anything at all.

“Not a friend?” she questioned once they were out of earshot.

“They were all rather awful, to be honest,” G’raha murmured. “But they were children, and children grow up.” He frowned toward the path behind them, and then gazed toward the path ahead. “...One should hope.”

Hastening upon their way soon took them to a clearing, where the most massive tree trunks Z’seira had ever seen gave way to a settlement of sturdy wooden structures built atop one another, some three and four stories high. A latticework of staircases and bridges interconnected everything, with vines of ivy weaving and wrapping so intimately through and around the finished wood that it appeared to remain part of the living forest still. Above them, the canopies of these gargantuan trees wove together so tightly that shafts of sunlight barely peeked through and danced upon the settlement below only when the wind shifted through the leaves; the sky could barely be seen from here, and so too could the Miqo’te below barely be seen by their predators in the sky.

The Miqo’te in question bustled about tending to their own tasks, not unlike they might have in Z’seira’s tribe or others she had visited, though the surroundings couldn’t be more different from her dusty home in Gyr Abania. The air here was thick and humid, trapped within the forest as it was, and the scent of smoked salmon made her stomach growl. There were weavers laboring at a large loom while singing a work song together, carpenters sawing and sanding their work, and culinarians preparing what Z’seira assumed would be dinner. Two hunters hauled a sizeable antlered kill to the food preparation area, and a third joined them, readying her skinning knives.

Z’seira peered on curiously as she and G’raha walked past them, attempting to discern what manner of game it was and—a conceit of her past, perhaps—how skillful the kill. That old rush swelled within her: the thrill of the hunt, thrill of the conquest, her sisters at her side, moving swiftly, silently, but as one across the flats. A peculiar bit of nostalgia, perhaps, given that she hunted much bigger game these days, and had left her tribe and their ways behind quite pointedly, but something about visiting other Sunseeker settlements always roused the lust for competition within her. As far as she could tell, the G huntresses had caught some species of elk that was foreign to her south of the Xelphatol, and the kill had been secured with two shots to the neck.

Solid. She could have done it in one, she thought.

But she didn’t have a whole lot of time to crane her neck further and compare scores, for G’raha continued leading her right on past them until they reached the pens where they kept their livestock, and next to that, a chocobo stable.

The young stablehand mucking the stalls was about her task so noisily that she didn’t  _ hear _ the trio approach before she  _ felt _ a presence behind her. When she turned to find a giant golden-winged bird looming over her, she nearly lost her balance and narrowly saved herself from falling right into the manure with a decidedly ungraceful screech that had all the birds around her warking and cawing in turn. 

“What in the seven hells is  _ that _ ?” exclaimed the stablehand, grasping the railing separating the stall she was in from the stall adjacent. With that established, she then turned her astonishment to G’raha and Z’seira themselves. “Who in the seven hells are  _ you _ ?”

“G’raha Tia.” With a warm smile, he placed a hand on his chest, then gestured to Z’seira and her mount in turn. “Z’seira Xarynh. And  _ that _ is a large breed of falcon trained for riding in the city-state of Ishgard, gifted to my companion for her many great deeds,” —he beamed proudly— “as the Warrior of Light.”

“Named for her  _ glowing bird _ , I take it?” Having sufficiently regained her footing, the petite flaxen-haired miqo’te placed her thickly gloved fists on her hips and shook her head. “Twelve, they’ll see you comin’ from a malm away on that thing.”

“They can if they want,” replied Z’seira. “It won’t make a difference when I get there.”

“Hm. S’pose this is mine to look after, then?”

G’raha dipped his head appreciatively. “If you would be so kind.”

“G'raha Tia,” she mused thoughtfully, looking him up and down with a discerning squint. “Ain’t you the one who…” She seemed to think better of it, and waved her hand dismissively. “Never mind. Just— what do I need to feed it?”

After a brief and riveting discussion on the diet of falcons—small birds and rodents, yes squirrels will do, no she won’t eat the chocobos—they were finally on their way to their primary destination. G’raha gave Z’seira a small smile and tilted his head in a ‘follow me’ gesture.

While it was common for tribeswomen to share living accommodations in some numbers, tia often lived alone, particularly if they had once been nunh. This was partly because the Nunh always had his own living space (in which he would frequently accommodate other members of his tribe, but they remained his own permanent quarters and his alone). When a nunh vacated or became ousted from his position, it was customary for the next nunh to permit the vacating one to retain his living quarters, if the man still lived. In the most amicable of transitions, this established the new nunh as a man of grace; in even the most bitter of transitions, it established the former nunh as too negligible a threat for the new nunh to regard with pettiness. More oft than not, it served some combination of both ends.

Despite the vigor and purpose with which G’raha had been leading them thus far, he hesitated and came to a stop outside the small wooden home in question. Though he stood only fulms from her, Z’seira suddenly found him malms away, lost in a moment of private contemplation.

They had been together for a few months now, faced unimaginable challenges side by side. And before that, they had not been strangers. Yet in many ways they were still new to one another, still navigating how best to respond in situations such as these, and Z’seira found herself wishing she had the answers of years of emotional intimacy already, because navigating other people’s feelings delicately without a roadmap was not her strong suit. Regardless of how much she cared for them. 

“Everything all right?” she asked. 

Her words roused him from his brief stupor and G’raha favored her with a reassuring smile, nodding to her and then allowing his eyes to drift toward the flagstones of his father’s walkway. “’Tis only that...when I left… Well, I never quite lived up to expectations, you see.”

This place was rife with memories for him; objects, people, places, and events laden with significance to which she was ignorant, and G’raha drew a slow breath as he prepared to catch his warrior somewhat up to speed. “Being the bearer of the Eye, I know that my father wanted me to become Nunh to pass it on one day. But, as you well know, that life was never in the cards for me.” He ran his fingertips over the leather bracers covering his forearms and shifted his gaze to the rustling leaves above them. “I was small, bookish...too sensitive, as some would tell it. My peers never respected me and I was ill-suited to physical combat in any scenario that did not permit me to snipe an opponent from the trees. The other boys my age were both larger and stronger than me, and even if I somehow overcame  _ all _ of those challenges just to meet my father’s expectations, there are certain  _ other _ obvious matters that would have made it a doomed venture from the start.”

He gesticulated vaguely, perhaps simply to distract his hands from one another. “And so I chose to pursue my strengths in life, taking to the books rather than the blades, determined to find the answers to that which set me apart from the others rather than stay here and live out the same life as my father and his father before him and so on and so forth.” He stared bleakly at the closed wooden door before them—which, to Z’seira, was naught more than exactly that: a plain wooden door. But to him, she could imagine, it was as a fortified portcullis, ten times as formidable as the Gates of Judgment in Coerthas and twenty times as high as the Moon Gates of Doma. Infinitely more difficult to traverse than the rift itself. “Given that,” he continued, “and how seldom we kept in touch...I am uncertain that he even  _ wants _ to see me again, or if I have been written off as a failed son, no more desired here than I have deigned to visit over the years. Which I have not.”

Certainly these were significant challenges to overcome, and Z’seira drew in a long breath as she considered what she might possibly say that could be helpful or reassuring. Her relationship with her own family was...rocky, to put it mildly, and the prospect of not being welcome home was not an unthinkable notion to her. “Well…”

She stepped closer to G’raha, traced his round profile with her eyes while his gaze was fixed upon the abode ahead. He was cursed with a baby face, as he would tell it, and while Z’seira certainly found it to be a pleasing face, it stood at odds with the century and some change of lived experience that he held between his time on the Source and his time on the First. It would evade most people, but that old soul still glinted in the depths of his preternaturally bright ruby eyes, despite that he was a man of only twenty-four as much as he was a man of one hundred and twenty-two. Or three hundred and thirty-one, depending on how and what you counted.

She tucked a loose strand of his crimson hair back between the hair clips that held his bangs out of his face, and his ear flicked in recognition of the ministrations as his gaze refocused softly upon her. “As someone with plenty of experience with being  _ failure offspring _ and showing up anyhow,” Z’seira imparted as sagely and as wryly as possible, “the only thing I can say is that you won’t know if they want you here until you go in there and find out. And if this tribe somehow decides you’re not enough for them, with all you are and all you have done, you’ll still always have a place with me and the other Scions. Hells, even if the other Scions ditch us, you’ll always have a place with me.”

G’raha gazed searchingly at her, his beautiful red eyes such a stark contrast to all this greenery surrounding them, and smiled. The tension gripping him seemed to ease a measure and he took her hand, lacing his fingers with hers and tugging her playfully closer in the tenuous privacy afforded by his father’s house being offset from the main settlement. “And how can I allow myself to entertain such anxieties when my greatest reminder of hope and courage stands beside me?” He pressed his lips against her forehead and released her. “Come, my star, and pray forgive me this lapse of faith. ’Tis an unnerving thing to visit one’s childhood home after so many years away, and stranger still when it seems far longer an absence to me than it does to them. But I have grown too much since those days to permit the ghosts of my childhood to haunt me as they once did.”

Z’seira grinned. “There’s my Raha.”

He smiled back at her and wiggled his ears.

“And if all else fails… If you need me to punch anyone, just say the word. I mean, maybe not your  _ father _ —probably—but, you know. In general.”

G’raha stared at his certainly-not-guilty-of-war-crimes hero in brief abject horror as he attempted to ascertain how serious she was. Z’seira wasn’t quite sure what his verdict was—she was absolutely serious, but smiled brightly just in case he didn’t want her to be—but he tucked his alarm behind a bemused smile in any case. “Let’s...stick to the more diplomatic route for now. I think it unlikely that anyone should need to come to blows, but I appreciate your support nonetheless.”

“All right, all right.” Z’seira loosely drew an X over her heart. “Best behavior, the whole time. I swear it.”

He smiled and led the way forward once more. The ultimate destination of their whole journey north was now but a handful of yalms ahead of them. When he reached the door, he placed his hand on the knob, paused, and took a deep breath before pushing it open.

—only to be greeted by an empty domicile within. Curtains drawn, lanterns snuffed, no one home.

G’raha released the breath he was holding with equal measures of relief and deflation. “Well this is rather anticlimactic, is it not?” He took a few steps into the home and called out nonetheless. “Father?”

They were more modest accommodations than her own sire had seen fit to gift himself with: a single room with a bed, a sitting area, a kitchenette, and enough personal effects to allude to the life of a person who had lived here for decades. Z’seira found herself skimming the knickknacks on his mantle and quickly did a double take when one in particular caught her eye. A stuttery laugh escaped her unbidden as she was forced to reconcile with the fact that even here—all the way out here, malms away from any primals, ruins, elite collectors, or Rowena’s entire godsdamned collectible business—she was beholding the unmistakable brightly colored circuitry of an Allagan tomestone. Not that it didn’t make a measure of sense to her, she supposed. 

“Can’t escape these damn things anywhere, huh?”

G’raha joined her by the mantle, but his brow was furrowed in intense puzzlement over the tomestone’s presence. He opened his mouth to say something, but a door that Z’seira had previously assumed was only a closet or washroom opened and a broad-shouldered man with fiery red hair stood within it, causing her to jump and startling them both to silence. 

G’raha’s father had a far more imposing presence than she ever would have imagined based solely upon beholding G’raha. He stood closer to six fulms than five, bore worry lines in his brow that gave him a displeased appearance, and his single Allagan Eye glowed faintly enough in the paltry lighting through a pair of round spectacles that even Z’seira found it unsettling.

But she was not nearly so unsettled as the man who stood before her, beholding a ghost and an intruder, nor the one frozen by her side.

“Raha.” The elder tia’s voice was quiet and solemn, as though speaking something forbidden, something he did not want the gods to hear. “Why have you returned?”

Even from where she stood, Z’seira saw the moment of heartbreak in G’raha’s eyes; the crestfallen panic, the reckoning with the unbearable truth that sometimes hope really was only symbolic, that some were doomed to fail, and that his fleeting fancies of being welcome home again were among them. “I—” Words failed him, caught somewhere in the back of his throat with his embarrassment and the unmistakably thick sound of emotion that threatened to choke and overwhelm, that robbed one of language and air and rational thought.

He was relieved of the need of them, however, when his father briskly strode across the room and clasped his arms tightly around him.

G’raha blinked at the wooden ceiling and permitted the tears to slip down his cheeks, confusion writ plain on what could be seen of his face over his father’s broad shoulder. He lifted his arms to return the gesture, but his father pulled back to view him properly almost just as quickly.

“Your  _ eyes _ ,” remarked the sire, cupping the cheek of the still stunned and speechless son. “Is your work finished, then? Tell me everything.”

“M–my work?” G’raha stammered. “Well—yes, in a manner of speaking, but— Father, what  _ work  _ do you speak of, exactly?”

“I do not know, but I gather now that it pertains to Allag.” He crossed the room and opened a drawer by his bedside. From it, he withdrew an envelope, and from that he withdrew a letter which he then passed to G’raha.

G’raha accepted it from him and voraciously began reading it, his eyes drinking the words lain across its surface as a man in the desert guzzles water. His eyes welled up freshly as they traveled down the page, and by the time he reached the bottom, they widened with a sorrow and an understanding that she did not yet share. Wordlessly and with trembling hands, he passed the letter to Z’seira.

> _ To the Respected G Tribe, and the Loved Ones of G’raha Tia, _
> 
> _ I write to you from the Sons of St. Coinach with heavy news to bear, and yet a gladness in my heart for the future of our world, for G’raha Tia has embarked upon a most critical journey from which he is not like to return. Though the details of this journey regrettably cannot be relayed to you, know that his mission is one of paramount importance to the realm and every individual who resides in it; that his deeds are unlike to be heralded or even noted in our time, but for his sacrifices we may yet avoid untold disaster. In no minced words, he shall be no less than an unsung hero. _
> 
> _ Know that he is well, and that I have no reason to believe his good health will change anytime soon. Know that the road he has embarked upon will take him to places beyond imagining, where he is like to have wondrous experiences that we can scarce but fathom. Know that when I last saw him it was with a smile upon his face, a deep abiding certainty in his undertaking, and a sense of purpose and fulfillment that every man can only hope to someday find for himself. Know that his tireless work has ever been a boon to us, that we quite definitively could not have achieved what we have without him, and that he will ever be remembered by those who knew him as a man of unsurpassing bravery and optimism. Though he may remain unmarked by the history he so loved, it will be by his courage that history did not take a darker turn, and every soul in this world will enjoy brighter days for having shared it with him. _
> 
> _ For my part, I will do everything within my power to see that G’raha Tia’s actions are not taken in vain, and that the light of his legacy never dims within our organization. _
> 
> _ May the Twelve keep you and yours, and may they ever light the uncharted road ahead for G’raha Tia, _
> 
> _ Rammbroes Zasertylsyn _ _  
>  _ _ Overseer, Sons of St. Coinach, Nominated Observers of Artifacts Historical _

“All this time, and not once had I considered this burden I had placed upon him,” G’raha whispered, not directly to her but surely not to any other audience. He placed a hand over his eyes, breathed in deeply, and took a moment to compose himself. “When we return, pray do not allow me to be remiss in expressing my gratitude.”

“Never knew Rammbroes was so sentimental. That’s a pretty good eulogy.” Z’seira gently folded the letter along its preformed creases and passed it back to him. “And he didn’t even stretch the truth to tell it.”

G’raha opened his mouth to protest, but was silenced when his father spoke first.

“You have clearly made an impact on those around you, Raha. I have expected no less, but pray tell me where you have been, and what it is I do not know.”

“Where I have been—” Z’seira saw the hesitation in his eyes, the habitual inclination to keep all cards close to his chest, the weighing of the prudence of it all, but also a  _ longing  _ for something—something  _ desperate _ and personal. From the silent ruby war emerged a victor, and when the words came forth, they contained no riddles or half-truths. “To the  _ future _ , Father—and other worlds besides—and the last remaining bastion of Allag’s hopes and dreams—pray, speak of these things to no one—”

In his excitement and lingering emotional compromise, it all spilled out in a jumbled, meandering narrative that for all his good intentions contained more quavering syllables and backtracked explanations than soundly connected threads. Somewhere between Viis orphans and Cerberus’s stomach lining and the sensation of merging with the tower to traverse the rift, it occurred to him that he had forgotten to introduce his significant other.

“—oh, but I am getting ahead of myself and have long since neglected my manners! Pray forgive me, both of you. Seira, my father, G’taqa Tia.” He gestured appropriately to the man in question, though his eyes remained on Z’seira. “And…” G’raha cleared his throat and gently placed a hand upon her shoulder before finally turning his eyes to his father, carefully gauging his reaction. “This is...Z’seira Xarynh, Father. We are—together.”

G’taqa’s reaction was decidedly underwhelming. Z’seira bowed politely, and G’taqa nodded, and G’raha glanced between the two of them, slightly baffled.

“...Romantically,” he clarified.

“Ah!” Where there was polite indifference before, an exuberant pride now stood in its place. G’taqa Tia’s ears perked and he beamed at his son. “Then you have established yourself as Nunh elsewhere on these travels? My son, you ought to have introduced yourself first.”

So soon after being reunited, it would have been all too easy for G’raha to twist words and simply claim that yes, he had become a nunh, in a distant territory known as Lakeland. That his people were the Crystarium tribe, and circumstances were simply such that he had only one mate and only one daughter. Z’seira could then attest to how respected and beloved ‘ _G’raha_ _Nunh_ ’ was among his people, and they could devise some clever cover for their differing tribal letters by virtue of existing outside the original twenty-six. 

But a nunh was something entirely different from an Exarch, and G’raha had not been Nunh of the Crystarium.

He maintained his resolve and shook his head with a serene smile, come what may. “No.”

The tension in the air was sudden and palpable. Z’seira swallowed, and G’raha’s hand tensed on her shoulder.

G’taqa’s mismatched eyes cycled through shock and then a quiet darkness. “This is not permitted, Raha.”

“As we both well know. And yet our love persists all the same.”

“Then do as you should, and establish a tribe. Settle here,” he offered with a hint of pleading desperation in his voice, gesturing to the surroundings and ruddy eyebrows raised softly, “nearby, and I will see to it that you are considered an extension of the G tribe. But even should you settle in some other land, take on some other name— You alone carry the Allagan Eye, Raha, and it would pain me for the G tribe to lose it, and for I to lose you, but you would do better by your descendants to have them called  _ naka’te _ than  _ tiajaarajh _ .”

G’raha sighed, not only with the weight of his father’s disapproval but of the eternal expectations placed upon him since his birth. Expectations which he had ever failed, and knew he ever would. His hand slipped from her shoulder and he paced to the other side of the room, where he set Rammbroes’ letter down atop his father’s night table. “I do not intend to lead a tribe, Father. I have conducted my fair share of leadership, and that chapter of my life is concluded.”

“And yet you have sired no children, with no title.”

“No.”

“Why?”

G’raha took a deep breath, gathered his strength, and sought a way to answer that question that would satisfy his father’s need for answers while maintaining dignity for Z’seira and himself and speaking to their truth. He looked to her, searched for something in her eyes, and she gazed back as supportively as she could without interfering. Their people were ever proud, ever stubborn, and if an answer posed directly to G’raha had come from anyone’s lips but his own then his father would not have respected it. She understood this well. Yet when he did settle upon a response and turned his gaze and his resolve back to his father, it sounded very much like words she had uttered to him so many times herself. 

“Because the tribal ways are not for me, Father— for  _ us _ .” He stood with resolve before his sire, a man several ilms over his height in physical stature; a man who, in his eyes, had ever towered over him in all else. “I could not… I would be unable to _ lead _ a tribe in that manner, to have others stand where Seira stands.” His eyes softened as his father’s demeanor became ever so slightly more rigid, and it raised Z’seira’s hackles in a fiercely protective way to see one with over a century’s worth of wisdom and the well-earned respect of his people—the love and respect of  _ her _ , who did not give such things easily—struggle to justify himself to a man who could not have lived but half as many years. Yet a father was ever a father and a son ever a son, even when the son was himself a father to a woman grown, a world away. “I know ’tis foreign to you, and perhaps disgraceful, but I wish only for her, and she—thank Azeyma—for me.”

G’taqa crossed his arms and regarded G’raha with solemn disapproval for but a moment before turning his attention on Z’seira. “And you— You would follow him, even knowing this? Even that you are alone in doing so?”

She was tempted to say, ‘Yes, yes I do,’ if only to bolster G’raha in the eyes of his father. But that wasn’t the whole truth either, and if he had not taken the easy way out of this conversation by claiming to be Nunh of some far off land, then neither would she.

“I don’t follow him,” she clarified, slipping her hand into G’raha’s and placing her other on his wrist. Her chin lifted, nearly level with G’raha’s own. “We stand together.”

Z’seira gazed at G’taqa Tia and held her ground. G’taqa gazed back solemnly at her, then at G’raha, then sighed. “You have ever been a stubborn child.”

He turned his back on them and began busying himself wordlessly about the kitchenette as though they were no longer there, leaving G’raha and Z’seira to look at one another in bewilderment. They still clasped one another’s arms, unclear if they were dismissed or if this was some trial they had passed or failed or were still undergoing.

It was only after allowing them to suffer that discomfort for as many moments as was feasible that G’taqa Tia spoke, though he may as well have been speaking to the kettle that he placed upon the stovetop and not to either of them. “Will you want tea? Surely your journey here was long; take one of those rolls on the table, each of you. They were made by G’helsana.”

G’raha tentatively released her arms and crept toward the small round dining table that stood between him and his father. “You are not...upset?”

G’taqa gave a noncommittal grunt that clearly communicated he was far from  _ pleased,  _ and allowed G’raha to linger once again in the uncertainty of his silence—this time accompanied by a scrutinizing bespectacled gaze—for as long as he could possibly extend the withering experience. “No matter what shame or dishonor you seek to bring upon our tribe and our ancient line, you are still my son, and I would see you watered and fed.” He pushed the bowl of golden bread rolls toward G’raha and examined him thoughtfully. “Do you know...that there is another such wayward love story in our history?”

G’raha blinked at the rolls as he pieced together the implications of his father's words, and Z’seira watched the wheels spin furiously behind his eyes. Of course  _ he _ knew, and he had shared with Z’seira the relevant details of the tale in question, but if his father was speaking of what it seemed to them he was speaking of then that would mean— “Desch and Salina?” he clarified. “You  _ knew _ of that?”

“Aye, ’twas ever between the lines of that tale.”

All the answers he had sought… All the lengths he had gone to, the fear of returning home, the belief he had exhausted all this place held for him, only to learn that answers had been here in the Talon Wood all along. His face crumpled into a confused grimace, searching his father's eyes—so much like Raha’s when she had first met him, yet now so very different—for an explanation, all the while standing in the painful truth that his quest had even taken him somewhere far beyond this man’s death, and it was only a most extraordinary mercy of fate that he had the chance to resolve this with him now. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that you knew  _ more _ ?”

“Because it was  _ meant _ to be told to you when you became  _ Nunh _ . But…” G’taqa gestured haplessly at Z’seira.

Z’seira opened her mouth to protest, but settled for folding her arms indignantly instead.  _ Best behavior. _

G’raha frowned. “And you never allowed for the possibility that I might wish to follow a different path in life?”

“To be Nunh is life’s greatest honor,” G’taqa asserted boldly, splaying his palms to the empty air as though nothing could be more self-evident. “Why would you not wish for such?”

“There is a wide world outside the Talon Wood, Father, and many other things to which to aspire.”

“And Raha’s been honored plenty.”

Her resolve for respectability as a nice and well-behaved guest didn’t last long, and both tia turned to her when she cut in. Given that Z’seira had mostly recused herself from this conversation between father and son this far, speaking up now while they were disagreeing may have seemed a bold or even unwise choice, given all the circumstances at play. She had a tiny, husky voice befitting the tiny, wiry body that led so many to dismiss her until they learned of her reputation, and enough of a knack for using it to upset tribal elders that cutting in to tell G’taqa Tia his parochial view of the world and his own son was wrong only gave her pause for the fact that he was G’raha’s father. But, hells, G’raha sure wasn’t going to sing his own praises, so it wasn’t enough pause.

“He’d sooner die than tell you so bluntly,” Z’seira casually eviscerated, gesturing to a gaping G’raha, “but he has saved, sheltered, and inspired generations of people. He built a city from the ground up that was the only place many felt safe, and other leaders of Norvrandt look to  _ him _ for wisdom. If you could only visit the Crystarium— I’ve never been so stricken by how much a leader was beloved by his people.”

“...Certainly it has been an honor to serve in the roles in which I have been able to serve,” G’raha mitigated politely, still staring at her as though she had sprouted a second head, but Z’seira shook her head firmly.

“He’s a hero on the First. They regard  _ him  _ as a Warrior of Light, and consistently try to ply me for enough information on him to write a proper biography so they can celebrate him forever. Subtly, of course.”

“They what—”

“Oh. Yes. They wanted to build a statue in your likeness, too.”

“A  _ what _ ?”

“Don’t worry, I knew you would hate that so I convinced them the one they already have is better.”

“The one they—  _ Oh _ .”

While G’raha and his reddened cheeks grappled with that, his father’s tail swished agitatedly, his arms crossed firmly over his chest. “I do not doubt your accomplishments, or that you should be deservedly recognized for them. From the moment you were born, I knew you were destined to greatness. ’Tis why I was certain you would lead us someday.” 

The kettle began to whistle and rose quickly from a soft whine to a loud crescendo. G’taqa swiftly removed it from the stovetop before it could cause significant interruption, and began preparing three cups of tea with his back to the younger two miqo’te. “You left to learn of the world, and of Allag, and I thought, yes, these experiences would serve you well as Nunh.” When he was finished pouring, he set the kettle back upon the stovetop and placed his hands on the sides of the wooden tray that cradled the teacups as though he meant to pick it up, but he did not. He paused just like that, his back still to G’raha and Z’seira; his voice now quiet. “But then you did not return.”

“No,” G’raha agreed just as quietly, his head and voice both lowered as a chastised child. “I did not.”

“You scarcely wrote.”

“...I am sorry. I… the course work—I was so busy—”

“Aye, and I certainly never wanted to interfere.” G’taqa Tia summoned whatever inner strength he needed to lift the tray and turn to them, his countenance as inscrutable a read as ever. He set the tray carefully in the middle of the table, then stepped back and studied his penitent son. “But you are happy in this life?”

G’raha looked up at his father, coiling steam from the teacups rising up between them and causing his bright red eyes to appear to glisten. “Yes,” he replied emphatically, almost breathlessly. “Extremely.”

G’taqa studied him for another quiet moment, then canted his head toward the adjacent room from which he had first emerged. “Come. While the tea cools, there is something I would like you to see.”

He disappeared into the room without ensuring that they followed, but they very quickly did.

Within was a workshop, only slightly smaller than the main room of G’taqa Tia’s living space but appearing considerably more cramped for the wall-to-wall shelving stuffed to the gills with old technology, much of it dusty and in various states of disassembly. Some of it might have been Garlean, but most of the items that caught Z’seira’s eye were unmistakably Allagan, if only for the ancient empire’s noticeable penchant for using bright, glowing colors. That said, the items which were still operational enough for anything to glow were scant.

G’raha stood agape as he took in everything, doing a slow turn about the room to absorb it from every angle. He could likely discern the origins of these items at a glance far better than she, whose only familiarity with enemy tech came from what was being jabbed at her on a battlefield and what she could hawk to Rowena. By comparison, his eyes scanned the contents of the shelves as though he were reading sacred texts where she saw only a picture book.

“Father— Where did you  _ get _ all of this?”

The room also encompassed an old sofa and a sturdy wooden desk, both of which were strewn with miscellany. G’taqa moved a sack overflowing with rolled parchments from the sofa to make seating space which no one immediately took. “There are Roegadyn traders off the coast with whom we deal once a moon. Since they have learned I am interested in purchasing such things, they have been sure to include whatever scraps they can acquire with every shipment— Though I gather they are the leavings of wealthier customers, and perhaps that is why most of it is broken.”

Far too enthralled with his surroundings to sit and perhaps to even notice that space was made for him to do so, G’raha gave his attention to the contents of the desk. There was a small deactivated Allagan node lying there, no larger than Z’seira’s head, perhaps. It had been pulled apart at its hemisphere about as far as the natural joining there would allow it, and sat amongst some various tools that G’taqa had likely used to attempt to access its core. Yet when G’raha carefully picked it up and examined it, he found that it was still intact.

He snapped the two hemispheres back into place, returning it to its properly spherical shape once more. Then he placed it upon the desk, held his hand over it, and closed his eyes.

The node lit up and whirled to life.

G’raha took a single step back to allow it room to hover a few inches over G’taqa’s desk; G’taqa took several steps back as though he was expecting it to launch itself in his direction. He nearly knocked several items off the shelf behind him when he braced his arms outward, and perhaps was equally puzzled to see Z’seira’s lack of a reaction as he was to see the node beeping, booping, and floating at his son’s command.

As it completed its bootup, the node’s spinning slowed to a steady rotation, and its various flashing lights pulsed steadily to indicate its readiness for input.

“State your function,” G’raha politely instructed the node.

“Data recording node A-141518 registered to: NULL ERROR.”

What sounded like a setback to Z’seira lit a glimmer of excitement in G’raha’s eyes. “List records.”

“Searching for data...searching for data... No records found. Data storage empty.”

And just like that, his ears sank and the glimmer was replaced with disappointment. “List user history.”

“Searching...searching...please stand by.”  _ Beep boop _ . “Last known user: NULL ERROR. Recent user actions: 27 records deleted 1,642,650 days ago.”

“Attempt recovery of deleted records.”

“Attempting data recovery…processing...processing...please do not power down node while—” The node blared an angry klaxon that nearly made Z’seira jump. “Error: corrupted data cannot be recovered.”

G’raha pressed his forefinger against his chin. “How unfortunate.” To the node once again he asked: “Can you store new data?”

“Affirmative. Node is in good condition following deletion of corrupted files and has 4,294,967,296 units available for storage.”

G’raha straightened his back and proudly instructed the node, “Register new user: G’taqa Tia.”

“Data recording node A-141518 now registered to: G’taqa Tia.”

“So, while it won’t offer us anything edifying about its past,” G’raha explained to his father, “it should be able to hold memos and the like for you, if you wish.”

G’taqa raised an eyebrow at G’raha and regarded the node skeptically through his spectacles. “You...wish for me to talk to it?”

G’raha nodded. “’Tis its function. And ’tis equally rare to find one in such good condition, no matter its ‘recent’ history with data corruption, so ’twould be a shame to waste it. All the same, it might be prudent not to store anything  _ terribly _ crucial on it, just in case.”

G’taqa approached the node warily. “...Hello. How are you?”

“Error,” the node rudely replied; “query not recognized.”

“Ah— try this…” G’raha leaned toward the node, placing himself between it and G’taqa. “Begin new data log: Hello, Father! Congratulations on the recent acquisition and refurbishment of your very own recording node. Love, your son. End data log.”

The node beeped acquiescently.

“List records,” G’raha instructed again.

“There is one record saved, stored three seconds ago.”

“Play most recent record.”

G’raha’s voice replayed brightly from the recording device: “ _ Hello, Father! Congratulations on the recent acquisition and refurbishment of your very own recording node. Love, your son. End data log. _ ”

He smiled patiently at his father, whose eyes were as wide as though Azeyma herself had descended unto his workshop and put on a technological demonstration for him. “It will replay this message whenever I instruct it to?”

“Yes— and anything else you record.”

Though it could have been a trick of the light against his glasses, Z’seira could swear G’taqa Tia’s eyes became misty. He opened his mouth to say something, then quickly snapped it shut, overcome with some emotion. “Thank you,” he said quietly. And then, again to the node: “Thank you.”

“’Tis a trifle,” G’raha assured. “But, Father—  _ why  _ are you collecting broken Allagan technology?”

G’taqa took a deep breath to reassemble himself. “When you left here to study Allag, to uncover the unknown truths that tormented you when you were young, I could do naught but send you off and wish you well, because I had no answers for you myself, save that the truth lies with Allag.” He gestured toward the node, the shelves, the evidence of a years long obsession that began after G’raha left. “And some inkling as to its origin in our bloodline—rumors deemed too illicit for young ears—and our duty to protect and preserve it, but to what end I have never known. And so I was unable to provide the truths you wished to know: the reason—nay, the  _ purpose _ of your suffering.”

He strode toward the old sofa with his head lowered in his memories and took for himself the seat he had cleared for the children that yet remained unclaimed. “As a parent, one of the most terrible experiences is to see your child in pain while able to do naught about it. The other is to one day know you will never see them again.”

That one struck G’raha deep. His eyes widened for a brief moment, a flash of quiet pain before he cast his gaze downward and dealt with that privately. But his father caught it, and gestured toward him. 

“Yes, I gather you have some knowledge of this now yourself—the orphan girl you left behind—so I need not elaborate.”

“Lyna,” said G’raha quietly.

“Lyna,” G’taqa repeated, bowing his head. “A world stands between you, and for all I knew, a world stood between you and I. Though your colleague said you lived, you were gone to me forevermore, and I could no longer help you. I could but live with the knowledge that I hadn’t the means to aid you when you had need of me, and ’twas a pain I would carry always.”

“But you knew of Desch and Salina,” G’raha disputed. “Simply knowing of that would have been  _ something _ more.”

“Aye, I knew it was the lingering mark of Allagan royalty,” G’taqa admitted, and it nearly robbed G’raha of his breath to hear so, “but the implications of that were ever something that we did not share with young gryphons, as ’twas with me and my father before me and his mother before him. So certain was I that there would be a day when I would tell you as Nunh that I did not rush to do so before then.”

“Implica––  _ Ah _ .” A breathless chuckle escaped G’raha as it finally occurred to him what his father danced around. “...You believed we are descended directly  _ from _ Desch and Salina.”

“’Twas never spelled out, but aye. An Allagan princess with a Miqo’te servant, an implication of improper closeness between the two, and Miqo’te with Allagan blood generations later. Our ancestors did not wish to call attention to the natural conclusions, lest such offenses to our customs become normalized.” He arched an eyebrow  _ sharply _ , and pointedly, at Z’seira and G’raha in turn.

G’raha shook his head. “’Tis true they were romantically involved, but the full truth is rather more complex than what you surmise—as is the full truth of Seira and me, for that matter. The Allagans, for their part, possessed the means of imbuing others with the magical properties of their blood without the traditional, ah…transfer of fluids. Bloodletting or otherwise.”

G’raha cleared his throat into his hand, and Z’seira pursed her lips to keep from cracking a smile at his expense. To his credit, G’taqa only appeared confused and skeptical.

“Surely my son the scholar realizes tales of such a fanciful nature are frequently told to conceal far more mundane wrongdoings, and the true story is often the one with the simplest explanation.”

“Indeed, Father, but that of which I speak is the very process by which the clones Doga and Unei granted me my second Eye. They strengthened the royal Allagan blood already within me, passed down through our generations in the traditional manner, with that which they carried directly from the Third Astral Era by sharing their  _ aether _ , which contained the  _ magical _ properties of their blood. Not a drop spilled nor flesh breached. With that enhancement, I gained not only command over protected Allagan technologies—” He gestured to the previously defunct recording node hovering happily over G’taqa’s desk. “—but also the memories of generations of Allagan royals and our own early ancestors, Salina and Desch each among those groups respectively. But I assure you they are not one and the same.”

G’taqa furrowed his brow, and so G’raha continued:

“You see, Salina, being the last of the Allagan royals, wished to  _ hide _ the remainder of the Allagan royal bloodline, something which she could not easily do if she bore a child herself. Thus did she ask her secret lover Desch, a Miqo’te tasked as her personal guard, to receive the blood from her and hide it within  _ his _ line, whom few would suspect of harboring the key to royal Allagan technology as the Miqo’te were subjugated—and frankly ill treated—by the Allagan Empire. They parted ways and she bore no children. Desch, however, returned to his tribe, now displaced from Meracydia to Ilsabard, and the rest of the story, as you say, is the one with the simplest explanation.”

With his arms draped across his chest, G’taqa gazed thoughtfully at some inconsequential point in space. “If ’tis as you say,” he ruminated carefully, “then our family secrets were guarded from our own with little reason.”

Finally telling his father the full tale of their origins after all this time was something that both G’raha-Tia-the-excitable-young-historian and G’raha-Tia-the-centuries-old-Crystal-Exarch had ample cause to get worked up about. But upon seeing how this information struck his sire, the wind left G’raha’s sails a bit. If he had any urge to progress on to chapter two, he swallowed it and took the seat beside G’taqa, settling in like an old man who had spent a century contemplating the hardest truths of the universe. There they sat, looking more alike than either of them likely knew, two auburn heads bowed by existential mishap as they each reflected upon their shared and individual circumstances. “I understand you could not have known.”

“Nevertheless, I am sorry I did not have these truths to share with you when you needed them. Perhaps if I had gone on your quest before I became Nunh…”

G’raha shook his head. “The Crystal Tower was unearthed by the Seventh Umbral Calamity. Given the timing, it could have been no other but me.” His brow furrowed further. “And I suppose...if you had shared with me what you  _ believed _ to be the truth, then I may never have gone in search of the truth on my own, and never would have learned the real story. Nor found my destiny. Nor would the tower have been sealed, nor would the Eighth Umbral Calamity have been averted.” His ruby eyes lifted then and met Z’seira’s. “Nor would I have met you, and nor would  _ your  _ fate have been averted. How strangely it all intertwines…”

But G’taqa gave only a flat and perhaps cynical grunt of dissent. “’Tis ever the way of tia to leave. To leave or become Nunh. We face this if we are fortunate enough to have sons.”

G’raha turned his head plaintively toward his father, and his father stood, hand on his hips, surveying the collection that surrounded them. “I do not know what I hoped to find in all of this.” G’taqa gestured vaguely at the junk, as though the statement had required any clarification. “Answers, aye, but only with the most tenuous grasp of a question. I knew only that I had a duty to do whatever I could, so that if the Eye presented in any of your sisters’ kits, I might be able to bring them a measure of the comfort you were unable to find here. In a roundabout way, I suppose I have now succeeded.”

G’raha’s ears perked and his posture bolted upright. “Do my sisters have kits?!”

G’taqa bowed his head in the affirmative. “Hahtoa and Naidjaa, two each. Laiboli, none. Koliwe has one on the way. None have the Eye thus far, but your sisters have years ahead of them yet.” 

“You might have led with telling me I am an  _ uncle _ , Father.”

“You should see them when you leave here—as well as your mother, before she has me put to the blade for keeping you all to myself. You will find her and Koliwe in the mean, and the other three may be out hunting. But all will return for dinner, and you can meet the children then. Come, the tea must be ready by now. Eat first, then you may make your rounds.”

G’taqa began to leave the room, and G’raha stood to follow obligingly. He took one more quiet look about, and Z’seira wondered how much of what he saw here was hidden treasure and how much of it was simply junk.

“What would you have done with all of this had I never returned, and the Eye never appeared again?” he asked quietly.

G’taqa turned back to view his collection once more alongside G’raha and shrugged. “I would have very rare paperweights, I imagine. And the knowledge that I did what I could.” Stepping back toward the desk again, he placed his hand tentatively beneath the spinning data recording node, and it hovered just a few inches higher to compensate for the altitude of his hand.

“Play most recent message,” said G’taqa. 

_ “Hello, Father! Congratulations on the recent acquisition and refurbishment of your very own recording node. Love, your son. End data log. _ ”

G’raha’s voice as recorded a few moments ago was bright and cheery, tinged with playfulness and a soft affection. It was enough to make Z’seira smile, and she had the pleasure of hearing it in person every day.

She couldn’t imagine what it might mean to her if she hadn’t heard his voice in over a decade.

To Z’seira’s surprise, G’taqa turned to her. “You are still able to return to this place he left behind, and the people he left there, aye?

Startled by the question, there was a beat before she dipped her head ‘yes.’

G’taqa nodded to Z’seira in turn, then held his upturned palm toward G’raha. The node trailed behind an ilm or two, then came to a rest happily hovering above his hand before G’raha. “You should keep this. Take it back to your Lyna. Perhaps the two of you might use it to communicate.”

G’raha gazed up at his father, his ruby eyes wide. “Father...are you certain? ’Tis quite a rare artifact, and useful to you, I should think.”

G’taqa shook his head and took one of G’raha’s hands by the wrist, positioning it in such a way that forced G'raha to take the node from him. “’Tis a painful thing to be separated from one you raised with love, to no longer hear the struggles and triumphs of their days. Even when they are men and women grown, full capable of standing on their own, the need to witness and participate in their lives will not pass.” 

He clasped G’raha’s hands tightly in both of his, then released him. The node remained hovering over G’raha’s palm. 

“I need this no longer. My son is returned. And what he needs of me now is much different than what he needed when he left.”

G’raha tried his darndest to stand tall and embody all the strength of that man full grown, but his eyes brimmed over with tears and he looked very much like he wanted to crumple with the weight of his emotions. “Thank you,” he whispered.

G’taqa smiled softly, and it was only then that Z’seira truly saw the resemblance in their faces. “Now come and let us recount some of these years we have missed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this was tonally cohesive, since I was only able to tackle it in segments and a lot of things were shuffled around and some things moved into the next chapter that I meant to address here. Eventually it got to the point where I could fuss over it forever and never post it because it would never be perfect or just say to hell with it and yeet it into the abyss because in the end it's not that important lol. Better to be done than to be perfect!!
> 
> But, hey!! If you liked it, liked some parts, it made you feel anything, etc., I would love to know! Any thoughts on G'raha's father? Any hopes for things you'd like to see G'raha encounter in the next chapter, since I'll be writing it separately? This is just a silly self indulgent little fic but that doesn't mean I can't indulge others as well. xD


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